So on and on an on, se a hop ditty de dop, de-dop-de dop. Again, into the great wide spaceo, oh, oh, dreamo. Turn away from the simple, and you've lost about 2/3rds of life itself. Within the confines of what may be blazè you find a powerful set of eyes with an intent truth about them. The fact that they have to be torn from you attests to the travesty of day out, day out. Lookin' to get in. Those eyes show part, I've got to be a king of more than Glances. Tear the truth from out your days, and soon will be a comforting haze. Dream, dream.
Hard, cold, like a heavy burden,
This floor tells me of its soft respite,
Down again, between unpainted lines,
Tell me about bats that don't exist,
rely on truth other than fact,
Perhaps vice versa,
But only one is sure,
That an end is nothing,
Meaning: everything.
She dreams in one dimension. A past is nothing more than a picture of something experienced or not. A simple little world is what she needs. I can abide only by avoidance, my world being subsumed in newness.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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